


too little, too late

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bittersweet, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Maeglin in Nargothrond, Non-Explicit Sex, One-sided Maeglin | Lómion/Idril Celebrindal, Past Finduilas Faelivrin/Gwindor, Self-Hatred, but mostly bitter tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: After the Fifth Battle, Maeglin goes to Nargothrond, and finds himself drawn to another golden princess of the Noldor. Only this time, she is drawn to him, too.
Relationships: Finduilas Faelivrin/Maeglin | Lómion
Comments: 18
Kudos: 22
Collections: Rare Pairs Exchange 2020





	too little, too late

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isilloth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isilloth/gifts).



> Dear Isilloth, this was very fun to explore. I love Maeglin and I've never written him with this pairing before; thank you for giving me the opportunity!

"Lómion," Turukáno said, "if you go...I fear you may not be able to return home."

Maeglin flinched. "You let my mother come back."

"That's not—" A shadow passed over Turukáno's face. "I should never have let her go."

"Then my absence will remove the reminder of her betrayal from your life," Maeglin growled.

"And would you go as my heir and my representative?" Turukáno asked. "I am the High King now, Lómion, and there is not—"

"Idril is beloved of your people." Maeglin's lip curled. "I am the Dark Elf's son. You do not want _me_ as your heir. Forsake me, disown me, and be done with me!"

"Lómion," Turukáno protested, but Maeglin did not let him speak. He had always known his uncle cared for him only out of duty and misplaced pity; he would not let Turukáno's false words lull him back into comfort now.

The horror of the Fifth Battle, the way Gwindor had been dragged beneath the feet of Morgoth's creatures... How could Maeglin return to Gondolin when he knew that _this_ was what the outside world faced? How could he remain hidden and complacent? Maeglin was many things, but he was not craven. He could not shy away from the Doom of his mother's people, not any longer.

And Gwindor: for all they had marched together only briefly, he had welcomed Maeglin with no thought for his shameful heritage, treated him as a friend and an equal. Never before had Maeglin had such a companion, and to see one so good and brave as Gwindor utterly destroyed in this horrible battle...

Gwindor had given him a brooch, before the charge. "For my Faelivrin," he had said, a brilliant smile on his face. "I traded my best dagger for this, from one of the Fëanorian smiths. Would you hold onto it for me? My heart foretells I may lose it—or my life." A shadow passed then across his face. "Either way, your hands may hold tighter to it. Deliver it to her for me, if I cannot?"

Maeglin hadn't had the chance to protest that surely Gwindor would live and even if not he didn't know who Faelivrin was beyond her name, for it was then that Turukáno called him back to the legions of Gondolin. Gwindor embraced him and wished him luck, pressing the brooch into his palm—and then he _had_ perished, leaving Maeglin friendless once more, and now with a promise he did not intend to make.

No matter. Even if Gwindor had not given him this task, Maeglin knew he could stay by his uncle's side no longer.

"I am going," Maeglin growled, "and you cannot dissuade me. I would go even if this battle had been won: there is nothing for me in your coward's city but loneliness and spurned desire. If Fingon yet lived I would follow his banner over yours, _uncle_."

Turukáno's face fell. "Lómion," he said, and Maeglin was shocked to realize he was _begging_ , "please stay. I have lost so many already—my sister, my brothers, my wife. Let me keep you and Itarillë."

At Idril's name, Maeglin felt a surge of disgust choke him. He turned his face away, overwhelmed with shame. "No," he hissed. "She will be happier without me; I disgust her. You will be, too: I only remind you of what you have lost."

Turukáno took a deep breath. "Then if you must go, at least go with a friend," he said. "Please, Lómion. A nér of your house, or one of the guards; Elemmakil, perhaps—"

"I go _alone_." Maeglin wrapped his cloak tight about him, clutching the brooch in his hand so tight the pin pricked his palm to draw blood. "As I ever have been, even shut behind the walls of your city."

He left, then, utterly convinced that Turukáno would be better off without him. Sooner or later, everyone realized that.

* * *

Maeglin's welcome to Nargothrond was warmer than he expected; warmer than it had any right to be. He was a deserter and a failure, and yet Orodreth accepted him with open arms, sat him at the highest table in his feast hall, let him kiss his daughter's hand.

And his _daughter_...!

Maeglin looked at her and saw—he saw Idril, but not Idril, at the same time. She was beautiful, and golden, and full of light and laughter, but she was not so tall as Idril, and her light was warm and gentle, not high and cold like Idril's. Faelivrin, Gwindor had named her, and Faelivrin she was: glorious as sunlight, kind as summer rain.

He was drawn to her, the way he was drawn to Idril, but she did not scorn him as Idril did. They were cousins, yes, but much more distant than he and Idril, and Maeglin looked upon her and _yearned_ in a way he thought he had left behind him in Gondolin.

But how could he look upon her beauty and know he would only shroud her in darkness? He was the Child of Twilight, a shadowy stain upon the Noldor, and she was radiance made physical, made _real_.

And not only that: she was Finduilas Faelivrin, beloved of Gwindor Guilin's son, and the reason Maeglin had come to Nargothrond was in memory of her fallen betrothed.

Her light was veiled in mourning, when he first saw her. She did not weep in public, but her smile was weary, her eyes distant. "He is lost," he heard her whisper to her father, and Maeglin wanted to reach out, to hold her, to tell her of Gwindor's valiance and how he thought of her even in the hour of his death—but he did not.

Maeglin tarried in Nargothrond overlong. He kept the brooch on him always, hesitant to deliver it to Finduilas. If he gave it up, she would be consumed again in her grief, even as the days passed and her eyes brightened slightly; if he gave it up, he would have no reason to remain here in these halls, with her.

They grew close: her teaching him how to navigate the winding halls, introducing him to a fellow smith and forsaken prince in Celebrimbor Curufin's son, smiling at his meager attempts at jokes. And though he gave her little in return, she _smiled_ again, and he clutched the brooch ever tighter, not wanting to let it go, not wanting to let _her_ go.

But at last the day came where he could hold back no longer, when she caught sight of the brooch as he turned it over in his palm and asked, leaning far too close for comfort, "What is that, Maeglin?"

 _Maeglin_ , she called him, his truest name. Lómion was his mother's gift, but when she died the child in Maeglin died with her. He was cursed to bear his father's legacy, cursed to be _different_ , and he would bear that shame with him all his days.

But here in Nargothrond, Sindarin was the common tongue, not Quenya. Here in Nargothrond, there were many like him: half-Sinda, half-Noldo, but not torn between the two. The Queen herself was a Sinda, and had shaken her head when he confessed he was Eöl's son.

"The Star-smith," she had said. "Yes, I knew of him. Grim and greedy he was, and we did not miss him when he left to Nan Elmoth. But of all his works, at least some good came from them: for you are here, Maeglin, and we treasure your company. It has been overlong since new faces came to Nargothrond, and longer still since my husband's kin were so gracious guests as you."

Maeglin had wept that night, touched by her kindness, and if he loved Finduilas more for her mother's sake—well, no one else had to know.

But now Finduilas was here, a breath away from his cheek, asking so innocently about the brooch stained with the blood not even of her dead lover, but of his own jealousy. It had been over a year since Maeglin's arrival, and he had not spoken to her of Gwindor, not once. What would she think of him now, having held back such a gift from her?

"It is—a brooch," he said quietly. "Crafted by the Fëanorians; or their smiths, I know not the details."

Finduilas pulled back, stiffening, and too late (always, always too late) did Maeglin remember the grief brought to her home and her family by that house, for all Celebrimbor still tarried in these halls.

"It was—it is not mine, in truth," he admitted, for even though he knew he did not deserve to be near her, he could not help but halt her leaving.

"How did you come by it?" she asked, her voice guarded.

"I..." He closed his eyes. "I am its keeper, though I should have surrendered it before now. It is yours, in truth, Faelivrin." The name tripped off his tongue, and when she flinched back he remembered who had given it to her.

She drew away from him further, like the sun as twilight gathered, and said, "How can it be mine, if I have never seen it before?"

"He found a token for you," Maeglin said, not meeting her eyes. His dark hair fell in front of his face, blocking out her light. "Gwindor. He—befriended me, on the battlefield, and his heart forbade him he would not live to deliver his gift. He asked me to give it to you, and I have failed, as I am wont to do, and kept it for myself. A memory of friendship, however brief, and—" he choked on the words, but said them nonetheless— "an excuse to be near you, Faelivrin. For though it is wrong in every sense, to desire the beloved of my fallen friend, I cannot help but find you fair, and kinder to me than I deserve."

Finduilas bore his speech in silence, utterly still. Maeglin could not look at her; he could not face her anger and rejection.

At last she held out her hand. Maeglin dropped the brooch into it, prepared for her to run, to never speak to him again.

But: she did not flee, though he felt her tears drip upon his hand. She tucked the brooch away and knelt by his side, brushing away his hair, and she was so _close_ ; Maeglin _wanted_ —

"Maeglin," she murmured, "you deserve kindness, for you have lost as much as I, and not only Gwindor. It tears my heart to know you hid this from me, but not in anger: in _grief_ , for we could have born this loss together, and grown closer from it."

"I am too close already," Maeglin rasped. "I will ruin you, like I ruin all—!"

She cut him off with a kiss, warm and soft against his lips, and Maeglin froze. Never before had he been kissed by an elleth, for Idril loved him not and never would, and no other maid would have him, nor he them.

"My heart is ruined already," she whispered, her tears mingling with his own. "For I love Gwindor even still, and all the more because of this gift—but I love _you_ , also, Maeglin, and you are here while he is not, and there is a burning in me that cannot be quenched."

She kissed him a second time, and Maeglin gave into his need, clutching at her and kissing back fervently, messy and desperate and _wanting_ —

"Come to bed with me," she gasped, pulling herself into his lap, grinding against him, and he _moaned_ as his desire became evident, and her words astounded him, because she was _good_ , she was _pure_ , and yet she wanted him, hungered for him, in the way his own dark desires craved.

"Faelivrin, you—!" he protested, but she cut him off with a biting kiss, and he swooned. Could Idril be so violent, so determined? He did not know, never would, but with _Finduilas_ —

"Every night I feel his loss," she hissed into his ear. "Every night I yearn for his arms around me, for his mouth on mine, for his whole being within me—no longer, Maeglin. He is gone, he is dead, but _you_ are here and living and you knew him, you cared for him, you care for _me_." She pressed against his hardness and Maeglin slipped his hand under her skirts, feeling her warmth, her _wetness_ , and she sighed and wriggled in his lap and he could scarcely believe his fortune.

"Maeglin, _please_ ," she begged, and how could he deny her, his sunlight, anything?

" _Yes_ ," he breathed, and slipped a finger inside her so that she cried out, and only when she shoved herself back and grabbed his hand (still slick with _her_ desire) did he remember they were in a public hall. She dragged him to her rooms, locked the door and bolted it, and pushed him down upon her bed.

"I need this," she wept, and Maeglin didn't know what to do, what to say: he'd never done this before, had only ever bitten back his cries in the darkness of his own quarters as he thought of Idril, out of reach. But here was Finduilas, pulling at his clothes, hiking up her skirts, settling between his legs. He sobbed with her as she sank down on his length and he forgot his griefs, if but only for a moment.

* * *

It was not enough. It could never be enough.

Finduilas took him to bed, that night and then again the next, and the next, and many times after; but she plighted no troth to him, and wore Gwindor's brooch by her heart, and said nothing of him to her father the king or her mother the queen. They would not be wed, for as much as Maeglin felt bliss he felt shame in equal measure, and she likewise.

" _Gwindor_ ," she moaned on occasion, and " _Idril_ ," he cried out also: they were not made for one another, for all they used each other, body and spirit.

It was too little, too late, this love. It demanded their hearts and minds and left them trembling and aching for _more more more_ , but they could never have it.

Gwindor was dead; Idril was beyond reach. And yet when Maeglin made her scream at night it was not Finduilas whose sweetness he licked from his lips, not in his mind; when she bit him and bruised him and made him tremble with the strain of his release it was not Maeglin she did these things for. Their want was a dark and broken thing, and no matter the love between them it could not replace what they had lost, what they had never had.

But it kept their emptiness at bay, and Maeglin had someone to hold at night. He could not complain, even if this was not what he wanted in the depths of his heart.

"I feel hope this morning," Finduilas murmured as she dressed one day some eighteen years since Maeglin's arrival to Nargothrond. "Hope as I have not dreamed of since..." She put her hand to the brooch on her breast, and Maeglin knew what she meant.

"Your father's line is blessed with foresight," he rasped. "Perhaps there is hope, coming back to you after long years away."

"Perhaps," she said, and smiled, and Maeglin treasured that gift only he could see.

But even hope was not enough, not when miracles arrived at Nargothrond's gates that afternoon and shattered the hard-earned peace Maeglin had tricked himself into feeling he deserved. It was not enough for Finduilas' heart to weather the reappearance of her long-lost love, nor the sight of that _man_ with his cursed blade that matched Maeglin's own, nor the horrid betrayal she had wrung from Maeglin in Gwindor's absence.

No, hope was not enough. It was too little, far too late.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and please comment if you enjoyed!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).


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